White Knuckles
by afastmachine
Summary: Finally back home, Emma is faced with a choice. (Angsty Captain Swan with triangle drama; sequel to Don't Touch and Riot Rhythm)


There's significantly more emotional and relationship stuff happening in this installment than the others, and the focus is kind of more on that. I wanted to write some kind of deepening of their relationship, and this is what came of it. Things couldn't stay rosy and sex-filled fun forever, right? Please don't hate me when you finish. There is a fair bit of Emma considering Neal and Hook's merits as well relationships, plus, well, this fic isn't exactly friendly to Emma and Hook's relationship. So if the idea of Emma and Neal, even for a little while, bothers you a lot, this might not be for you. But it's not for forever.

* * *

_you'll never get that taste_  
_out of your mouth_  
_you'll never get the paw prints_  
_out of the hen house now_  
_and you can't go back_  
_same way you came_

Emma isn't quite exactly sure when her life started falling apart. Sighing, she looks down at her glass, whiskey swishing around the bottom as she twirls it. Lifting it to her lips, she knocks back a sip, wincing as it burns its way down her throat.

That's not entirely true; she can pinpoint the instant this particular part of her life started to fall apart. Specifically, the instant the crowd had parted and she'd seen him standing there, whole and healthy and so happy to see her. Henry had run to him instantly, yelling and flailing as his dad picked him up and spun him around. There'd been tears and hugging and she couldn't believe it, even now. All those months she'd spent thinking he was _gone_, that she would never get her closure with him, and here he was, safe and sound and _alive_. And judging from the way he'd buried his face in her neck, whispered so many promises, he could hardly believe it himself.

She should have been thrilled; he was alive and here and their son was _safe_ and they could _heal_. But instead she's sitting here at this hole-in-the-wall dive, drinking herself into nothingness.

Right there on that pier he'd kissed her, like there would never be another moment for them. Like he loved her. And then when he'd finally pulled away and whispered those very words, it was everything she'd ever wanted to hear since she'd been eighteen and so alone.

It almost made it easy to forget the twelve years since, the aching loneliness and the desperate anger that had faded into tough scar tissue and a world of trust issues.

It was ironic that the pain he'd caused her, the trust issues he'd given her, those are the very reasons she's sitting here drinking her pain instead of talking to him about it. That, and the fact that she _knows_ he would try to dismiss it, play up how much he cares _now_, how they could be a _family now_.

And, then, of course, there's another tiny problem. Hook. She'd tried pretending that they'd just been having fun, that at first it had been necessary and then it had been a pleasurable distraction, a nice outlet for the frustration. And then, after it kept happening, and she kept _staying_, friendly conversations shared between his sheets, she upgraded it to a friends-with-benefits situation. And they were friends. Or, friendly, at least. He had proven useful(instrumental, but she wasn't too keen on going there right now) getting Henry back, and he was more than useful in other ways.

He shouldn't play into her problems at all; friends with benefits could always go back to just being friends. It wasn't like _he_ was after anything special, anyways.

It was driving her crazy. She wanted to feel whole again, have the one thing she'd never had; a family. And no amount of great sex could compare to that. But it wasn't just sex; they worked well together. He understood her; understood what made her happy and what made her angry.

As dangerous as it feels to trust Neal, to give into what everyone is telling her would make her happy, Hook is infinitely more dangerous. He's a loose cannon and he can't be trusted(nevermind that he's actually never betrayed her trust once she gave it). He _gets_ her in a way that not even the father of her child has attained. She's still wary of the man who broke her heart, caught between what she still feels, despite everything, and the flicker that burns at the thought of the man who never even had her heart.

Choosing feels impossible, and it _shouldn't_ be like this. She hates herself more than a little for her own inability to see reason.

Sighing, she sets her glass down, signaling the bartender for a refill. She's gonna regret this in the morning, but right now she can't bring herself to care. She needs the alcohol to cope with the mess inside her skull.

She doesn't want to pick, she wants life to stay the way it is right now for forever, so she lets her mind drift to other things, less pressing matters. School is going to start again soon, and with it will come more complications; for starters, who's Henry's emergency contact now? Sometimes it feels like half the town is related to her kid, which is good when he wanders off after school, and bad when she's trying to figure out a way to tell people to stop parenting her own damn son.

It's easy to think about Henry. He's the one easy thing in her life, the one thing she knows for sure is that she loves him fiercely. She would do anything for him. And, of course, that brings her back to her problem tonight.

Neal. She loved him once; she can do it again. For Henry's sake. For her own sanity's sake. She can't keep going on like this, it's going to tear her apart. She just needs to get this out of her system, make sure once and for all that Hook is nothing more than a nice distraction.

It's not the truth, but hey, nobody needs to know that except for her.

She downs what's left of her drink, finally realizing that she's never going to get drunk enough for this. Besides, the bartender had not-so-subtly cut her off, sliding over a receipt with her last drink.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite Swan," a voice comes from next to her ear, fingers brushing across the top of her shoulder.

Speak of the devil.

He doesn't sit down, choosing instead to slide between Emma and the barstool next to her, too close but not nearly as close as she'd like him. His elbows settle against the bar as he leans back against it, at the perfect angle for her to appreciate how good he looks in regular clothes. Sure, the leather is great, but there's something tantalizing about seeing him in simple jeans and a shirt that fits far too well across his chest and shoulders.

He smirks at her lingering gaze, but before he can say anything, she surges up out of her seat, meeting his lips. His hand comes up to the side of her head, angling her jaw just perfectly, and it feels amazing, the slide of his mouth against hers.

When she finally breaks away, he just grins. "Hello to you too."

Quickly, she yanks her wallet out, pulling out the cash she can find, hoping it's enough to cover her bill. The chance is right here in front of her, warm and smelling fucking amazing, and she's not about to pass it up. Right now, when she thinks she's safe to do this, one last time.

He chuckles at her hurried movements. "Are you in some kind of a rush, darling?"

She glares at him as she slides her wallet back into her pocket.

"What do _you_ think?" She edges closer, practically plastering herself against his side, and she turns to face her obligingly.

"I think you continue to amaze me," he says smoothly, slipping his arm around her waist before leaning in to kiss her again. She fists her hand in his shirt, not caring that there are other people here in this bar. None of them would even care about who she's kissing, though. There's a reason she drinks here; nobody gives two shits that she's the sheriff.

She moans against him, sighing a little as he pulls away.

"I think we should relocate to a more private location, wouldn't you agree?" His grip on her tightens, pulling her flush against him where she feels him already warming up to the idea.

"I think that's the best idea you've ever had," she replies, and he raises an eyebrow at that.

"Really? I seem to remember you thinking that thing I did with my tongue was the best idea I'd ever had." His voice is close to her ear as he guides her towards the door, arm firm around her hips.

She doesn't bother replying, just tilts her head away from him, enjoying his sharp intake of breath at the offering of skin.

His hook tightens against her hip and she feels a vague sense of dread, some sober part of her yelling out a warning even as she feels her insides tingle and warm. He presses a brief kiss to the side of her neck and then they're out the door, the cool night air a comfort on her flushed skin.

His arm is a comforting presence around her waist, a heavy weight that had her skin tingling even under the layers of her clothing. It makes her think of another time his arm had been slung around her, carefully guiding her down steps and towards his cabin. Just the thought, the memories, brought a flush to her skin and fed the warmth swirling between her legs.

Suddenly, she realizes she doesn't want to go back with him to his ship. She doesn't want to _go_ anywhere with him. There are memories everywhere, and it doesn't matter what's good and what is bad, because all she can think about is the fight inside of her, the anger and betrayal and lingering affection that she wants to embrace but can't help hating, and the fact that all that time, she'd said she loved him and he'd been trying to get back to her and she'd just been fucking the first man she'd found. She still hates herself for that, torn up over a betrayal that means _nothing_, should mean less than that, because he left her first.

Neal. Fucking Neal. Abruptly, she stops, pulling Hook to a halt beside her. She needs a distraction. Right now. She needs _him_ before her thoughts spiral out of control and all the hard work she'd put into forgetting tonight vanishes.

When she looks up at him, his gaze is quizzical, an eyebrow quirked at her sudden stop. Instead of answering the question, she throws her arms around his neck and attacks his face, nipping at his lips and thrusting hungrily inside when he opens to her. It's a thrill, a rush, and it does its job, pushes all thoughts of Neal out of her head. But she's still insatiable, needs _more_, and so she breaks the kiss and spins on her heel, headed for the tiny alleyway she'd spotted earlier.

"Emma," he starts, and manages to not trip over himself when she crooks a finger at him from the shadows. "Love, my ship is the other direction," he murmurs when they're finally close again, but Emma doesn't respond, just steps back against the wall, pulling him with her as she kisses him again with renewed passion.

He groans against her, his hand coming up by the side of her head as his hook slips around her waist.

"I don't care," she whispers when she pulls away just enough to speak. "I need you now."

If it's even possible, he turns even more needy, little desperate sounds escaping his lips as he hitches her leg over his hip and attacks her neck.

Still, it's not enough; he may want her (and he does, she can feel it with every movement of his hips against hers), but he's agonizingly slow, seemingly content to lay down a line of kisses down the neckline of her tank top where he's shoved her jacket back on her shoulders.

She tangles her fingers in his hair and forces his head up, back to her lips. He goes without a fight, but it's still not what she wants, what she needs right now. Maybe it's because she's had too much to drink and she's _hurting_ and desperate and angry, but she surges against him, her teeth coming down on his bottom lip, hard.

Abruptly, he pulls away, a frown on his face as he sucks on the cut. He takes a step away from her, forcing her leg down, and she growls in frustration.

"Get your ass back here," she demands, curling her fingers in his t-shirt.

But he doesn't move, even when she yanks hard enough to hear seams giving way.

There's something dawning in his eyes and part of her wants to wail and cry because she doesn't want him to _understand_, that was why she'd pulled him away from the bar before things got too serious anyway. But the _angry_ part of her is reckless and in control, thinks maybe she can force his hand. Make him make her forget.

In the long year she's known him, she's learned what buttons to press rather well.

So she curls her fists against him and shoves, hard. He stumbles back, catching himself just quick enough to avoid crashing into the opposite wall. It's exhilarating. If she can't fuck it away, maybe this will work. The anger is white-hot and burning under her skin, easy to release.

"If you aren't interested, I'll go find someone else who _is_," she snaps at him, spinning as she shrugs her jacket back onto her shoulders. She barely makes it two steps before he grabs her arm, yanking her back against him.

"How drunk are you, Emma? That you think _this_ is a good idea?" His gaze darkens. "That you think _he_ is a good idea?" Of course he knows what's on her mind. Who is on her mind, even when by all rights, she should be thinking about the man standing in front of her.

"Not fucking drunk enough, apparently," she seethes, yanking her arm free from his grip and taking a step back. "And it's none of your business, _Hook_, what or _who_ I think is a good idea." She narrows her eyes, willing the fury she's feeling into her gaze. "Just because we're fucking doesn't mean you get a say in my life."

Her words hang in the air, and she sees the instant it hits him, crashing into his eyes. His whole demeanor changes; his faces turns hard, his gaze dark.

"And here I thought we were doing more than _just fucking_, Emma." He takes a step forward, and another, enough to put him well in her personal space. She doesn't step back, raises her chin instead. He glowers at her.

Good. Maybe if he won't fuck her he'll give her a reason to hit him. Her skin itches with the need for violence, for something hard and unrelenting, wherever she can get it.

"If you think for one second that you were _ever_ more than a distraction, then you were _very_ wrong. Because that's _all_ you were," she bites out, shutting out the way her skin burns at his proximity, the dirty-burning fire inside her a tangled mix of lust and anger that she doesn't even want to try to examine.

The instant the words leave her mouth, he's on her, shoving her hard against her wall, his fingers curling around her waist.

"_Really,_" he growls, sliding his knee between her legs. And it's like his words, his actions, have hit her instantly. The anger is gone, roaring fire quite suddenly repurposed for a very different emotion. She's acutely aware of where he's pressed against her, his fingers working their way under her shirt, and she feels the ache from earlier crash down on her.

She needs him to make her _forget_, even more now. So she writhes against him, slides her hands up under his shirt, rucking up the material as she grips his waist.

"Are you angry?" She leans forward, their faces inches from each other, both of them breathing heavy. "Then _show me_. Show me I don't have to go to someone else to get what I want."

"Fucking hell, Emma," he mutters, breathing in the same air. And that's it. He's so predictable, so _him_; she's laid down the challenge and he won't be able to walk away, even if he were sober and calm and thinking rationally.

He's never been able to walk away from her. But she forcefully pushes that thought aside; she doesn't need it right now, it's too confusing and it only provokes _thought_ when she is trying so hard to not think.

Of course, he takes the bait, closing the tiny gap to kiss her. This time, he's the desperate one, rough and demanding. Instinctively, she brings her legs back up around him, and his hand drifts down to her ass, pulling her against him even as he presses her further into the wall. In that moment, she knows she's going to get what she wants. The anger is fading away, replaced by the ache between her legs and the lust boiling in her veins, and she gives into it without hesitation. This will be her escape.

"Is that what you want, Emma?" His grip on her ass tightens as he grinds his hips against hers. She's trapped; the hard brick all at her back, his equally-hard resolve at her front. "Do you want some _pirate_ to take you in an alley? Do you want to feel _dirty_? Do you want to _hate_ me because I fucked you when you should have been with your _family_?" The words were low, hissed.

God, he's bitter and angry and it's all her fault, but she can't _think_, can't process with the way he's pressing into her, thoughts slowed by the alcohol in her system and the dull roar of her still-simmering anger-slash-lust. "One last fuck with your dirty little secret," he growls into her ear, and dimly some sober and far-too-aware part of her realizes she should stop him, say something, defend herself(defend him, because _no_ he is not her dirty little secret, he was always so much _more_ and that's why it hurts, why she got drunk and is letting him do this, _making_ him do this), but his hand has moved, sliding around her front.

He rubs at her crotch through her jeans, and she can't help the moan, or the way her hips stutter against his hand.

"You're already ready for me, aren't you? I bet you're just _dripping_," he says, and oh _god_ she shouldn't be turned on by this, but she is, and in the morning she'll have a hangover and bruises and the excuse that she was drunk off her ass, and it will be only a half-lie and an even worse excuse. His lips drop from her ear to her neck, nipping and sucking and oh, _fuck_, it hits her like a trainwreck even as he pulls away, grinning darkly.

She doesn't have to have a mirror to know there's a red mark on her skin where his mouth had been, far too high and far too obvious to mistake. Dimly, she brings her hand up to press at the skin, wincing a little when her fingers brush the sensitized area. He's watching her, eyes black and wide, lips parted.

What is she _doing_? There's something wrong with him, with her, that she is standing on shaky legs in a goddamn alley about to be fucked by a pirate captain she deliberately provoked to anger when she should probably be with the man who says he loves her and would do anything for her.

Her thoughts are brought alarmingly fast(thankfully) back to the man currently with her, though, when he sinks into a crouch and starts yanking her boots off. His fingers make quick work of her jeans as well, and before she knows it, she's stripped bare to his gaze.

He eyes the apex of her legs, the part of her that she knows is wet and hungry for him, despite all sane, rational thought. And like he can fucking _sense_ it, he tips his head forward, nosing between her thighs. Obligingly, Emma widens her stance, opens up to him, but he doesn't _go_ where she needs him. Instead he hovers there, breathing her in, face inches away from where she's _aching_. His breath ghosts across her sensitized skin, and her legs tremble, her whole body shaking.

She's not watching, _can't_ watch, and so she doesn't notice until she feels the cool hard press of metal against her right _there_ that he's brought his hook into play. Her legs shudder and she just wants to melt to the ground, because it's dangerous and dirty and fucking amazing all at the same time. His thumb brushes the curve of her hip, fingers holding her in place tightly, bare ass against the cold wall as he presses the curve of metal against her core, sliding it up against her clit and then away from her skin in one move.

"Fuck, why'd-" she looks down, finally, and the words die in her throat, turning to a needy moan as his tongue darts out to lick at the wetness coating his hook. Jesus, she wants to die right now, she _needs_ to feel him. Slowly, far too slowly, he rises, still running his tongue across the metal. When his face is level with hers, he brings it up to her cheek, brushing away hair that has fallen across her face.

"It's good that you're so wet, darling," he says, his voice plummeting into darkness. "Because I am in no mood for foreplay."

It should be illegal, that he does this to her, that right now he is yanking at his belt and zipper, the modern clothes coming off much easier than his traditional outfit. More than a little hysterically, the words public indecency fly across her brain, and she thinks _oh, maybe I could arrest him for that_, before she doesn't think of anything because his mouth is on her, hard and demanding. His hand goes back to her bare ass, kneading for a moment before he leverages her up and she's forced to wrap her legs around him. The motion brings their hips together and Emma gasps into his mouth when she feels him, hot and hard, lining up at her entrance. He delves into her mouth, desperate and angry, and it feels _amazing_, more effective than drink and drugs and everything else she's tried over the years.

He's always felt amazing, and that's why he's so dangerous.

And they're _both_ being pretty fucking indecent now, her completely naked from the waist down and moaning against him like a porn star while he presses into her in short little bursts. It's too much and not enough; she's overloading, every nerve ending alive with sensation, but she needs _more_, she needs to _forget_, that was the whole _point_ of this.

Her whole body feels like it's on fire when his hips finally press flush against hers, seated as far in her as he can be. He takes a deep breath, and pulls out, only to slam home again even harder.

"Fuck," she whimpers, gasping for breath even while her arms slide around his neck as he thrusts into her, hard and punishing and everything she wants right now. She's going to hurt after this, and not just from the bricks against her ass or the bruises forming where his fingers are pressing into her skin. Just the thought sends sparks shooting through her; her mind flashes back to when they'd first gone at it, the way she could have sworn she couldn't walk straight for days, feeling him there long after he'd gone.

She squeezes her eyes shut, remembering how he'd pressed her shoulder blades down, his whole body draped across her as he thrust into her and she writhed and moaned his name, over and over again. All the positions, the different ways they'd had each other that day.

But never like this. Never so raw, so desperate, so _violent_.

He changes the angle abruptly, his fingers moving from her hip to tangle in her hair. His other arm goes around her waist and he presses her even further against the wall.

"Emma," he growls, breaking their kiss, "_look at me_." He yanks on her hair and she cries out, her eyes shooting open.

For a second their eyes lock, and just like in the movies, it all fades away. It shouldn't be like that with them; especially not like _this_. His hips are still driving into her, her body jumping against his with every movement, but it's all second-hand. He looks like he wants to eat her alive, and she wants him to. She wants anything he will give her in this moment, and a few things she knows he won't. Exhaling gently, she slides her eyes shut, allowing the sensations to fill her senses again. Looking at him is dangerous. He might see something she'd rather he didn't.

He doesn't say anything, but his lips descend on her jaw, his tight grip on her hair forcing her head back, further and further, exposing the long expanse of her neck to him. In retaliation, she digs her fingers into his back, nails desperate to break skin, to leave a mark.

He growls again, undecipherable words on her skin, and pushes into her, hard, his pace picking up. The heat in her belly feels like it's burning at her skin, and she knows she's close, especially when he brushes that spot inside of her that sends sparks shooting across her eyelids. Her clit aches from the lack of attention, so she releases his neck, her fingers sliding between them.

But he intercepts her, his hand dropping from her hair to pluck her wrist away, pinning it to the wall next to her head. His thrusts slow, barely, and he leans against her, his lips brushing the curve of her ear.

"You can come when I want you to, Emma. Since you're so determined for me to just _have_ you." She moans, his voice doing terrible things to her. "You should be _glad_, you tried so hard to make me just _hate_ you, I could be having you on your hands and knees, not a thing you could do about it," he rasps out, and oh _god_ she has to screw her eyes shut at the mental image. "Or I could have you on your knees, choking on me, your mouth just begging for it after what you said to me."

Fuck, she's not sure when he picked up on this nasty dirty talking habit of his, but she can't say she hates it. Not right now, when she wants to desperately to just _feel_ and forget. And his words are encouraging just that, making it hard to think of anything but the images they conjure up.

And thankfully he doesn't stop, his thrusts growing even more frantic as he releases her arm and slams her hips down against him. She groans and mewls, so fucking close but still not enough. She needs to be touched, damn it.

Like he can sense her need, his hand slides across her hip to dip between her legs. He just brushes the tips of his fingers across her clit and it makes her tighten her legs around him, internal muscles fluttering relentlessly because holy shit that feels good. She's _aching_ and every movement makes her more and more aware of the small-but-growing pains that she'll feel with a vengeance tomorrow. But she's so close to having everything she wants, and it's enough to muffle everything else, narrowing down to a sliver of sensation where he's fucking into her and his hand rocking against her right above where his cock is sliding into her.

Her release is on her before she knows it, cresting and crashing down on her relentlessly. It feels like every muscle in her body is tightening, clamping down on him. Her fingers claw against his skin and she's pretty sure she's not going to have fun trying to walk on these legs of hers. But it doesn't matter because for just one minute, everything whites out and she feels _amazing_.

It's almost enough to make up for what happens when she comes back to herself, back pressed uncomfortably against the wall, the weight of his body slowly crushing her. He must have come while she was out of it, because he's still, breathing heavy where his head is resting on her shoulder. The reality of what just happened comes crashing down on her, and the fragile bliss goes with it.

Quickly, she drops her legs from his waist, shoving his shoulders to push him off of her. At first, he lets her, his body rolling away from hers. But just as she thinks she's home free, he yanks on her arm, pulling her back to him. She crashes into his chest and he kisses her, his hand coming up to her cheek to steady her.

It's nothing like the lust-fueled kisses from before; he kisses her like he wants to know her. And it scares her, just like it always has.

She shoves at him, trying to push him off, but his arm is firmly locked around her waist, holding her against him. Going with her last resort, she bites at his tongue, and he jerks away from her, too startled to try and pull her back when she slips out of her embrace.

He sighs and scrubs at his face, she notices when she crouches to pick her jeans up off the ground. A brief pang of guilt flitters through her before she viciously stamps it out. Now is not the time.

"We need to talk, Emma," he says, like he doesn't know that's the one thing she's firmly avoiding.

"About what?" She shimmies into her jeans, carefully avoiding his gaze, grateful for the space between them, the space that he isn't trying to close.

"This. Us." He waves his arms expansively, as though the entirety of their relationship comes down to this little alley. And right now, he's right. This is all they are; this is all they can be, can ever be. It hurts too much to try to keep this, though, and that was why she'd done what she'd done.

"There is no _us_, or did you miss that part?"

He fucking _growls_ at her, the sharp sound more than a little unsettling, but still she refuses to look at him. "If you feel _nothing_, then why the hell were you drinking? Why did you practically fall into my arms, right there at the bar? Why did you just egg me on, trying to make me so _mad_ at you?"

She doesn't answer him until her boots are firmly back on her feet. This is _not_ going to happen. He doesn't get to take away what little bliss she'd just found, not with the way his eyes are begging to peek at her soul, flay her open and read all the nasty things she wants to hide.

"For the same reason I just fucked you in a dirty alley, Hook." She lets the words linger, knowing that he probably doesn't appreciate the reminder. "To _forget_."

Abruptly she turns her back on him, stalking out of the alley. He can't see her right now, too much swirling right under the surface, fucking _wetness_ in her eyes.

She keeps walking, even when she hears him call out her name.

She doesn't stop until she reaches her front door.


End file.
